


Negotiation Theory

by peevee



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, F/M, Fem!mycroft, Fingering, Genderswap, Pegging, Porn with a little bit of Plot, Rimming, Rough Sex, Slight D/s Elements, Slight Pregnancy/Breastfeeding Kink, Tights Kink, Tiny bit of Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-20
Updated: 2012-04-20
Packaged: 2017-11-04 00:37:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/387717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peevee/pseuds/peevee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which there is An Arrangement between John and Mycroft. Set across S2.</p>
<p>
  <i>“Do keep up, John. Sex. Yes?”</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“Uh,” he says, eloquently.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>She sighs and rolls her eyes as if he’s being completely obtuse.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Negotiation Theory

**Author's Note:**

> Yet again, I have written what was intended to be a short, kinky PWP and it has exploded in length and kinks until i couldn't control it any longer and it developed a sinister life of its own like some sort of Lovecraftian horror. Blame the fic, I had nothing to do with it.
> 
> Concrit welcomed and appreciated!
> 
> [This](http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Qi_l_pmRm0g/SbrlL4fpAKI/AAAAAAAAAvk/6eCKuc9Yn8o/s400/Meryl+Streep+as+Katherine--Backstage+Interview.png) is how i've been picturing Mycroft, for interested parties.
> 
> ETA: [numberthescars](http://numberthescars.livejournal.com/) has done some absolutely _gorgeous_ cover art for this fic [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/538249), for which I cannot thank her enough.

With hindsight, he suspects everything started in Buckingham Palace. 

Before that, Mycroft had just been Sherlock’s faintly terrifying, old-fashioned and interfering older sister. After, she was someone whose tongue curled with familiarity around the word ‘Dominatrix’, and who looked like she was perfectly aware of the mental image that John had suddenly been graced with. It may have involved thigh high boots and a whip. She'd smirked.

Even ordinary, unobservant John could practically hear Irene Adler’s filthy thoughts as she looked at Mycroft. She looked _avaricious_. Her fingers twitched, as though she was actively preventing herself from wrestling her into bed, perhaps with handcuffs, and she’d dragged her gaze between Sherlock and Mycroft as if she wanted to devour them both and couldn’t decide where to start. 

-

John would be the first to admit that Mycroft isn’t exactly his type. She isn’t pretty for a start; her nose is too large, her cold blue eyes should be _captivating_ or _soulful_ or some other such adjective, but actually her piercing stare is just . . . creepy. Despite that, there’s something completely magnetic about her; he thinks it’s something to do with the fact that she could completely destroy him in so many ways. She looks down her oversized nose at him like he’s a somewhat dim pet that’s doing something amusing, and _God_ , why is that hot?

John hears them arguing from the kitchen one Saturday, opens the door just in time to hear Mycroft getting to the end of her patience. 

“Sherlock, do shut up or I will _make_ you shut up.” Her tone is deadly, cracks like a whip. Sherlock shuts up.

John retreats to his room, curls a hand round his cock and within minutes is coming so hard he sobs with it. 

The worst thing about the whole affair is that Mycroft obviously knows exactly what he is thinking. He suspects that she’s started to choose her clothes on the days she visits Sherlock specifically to torment him; her perfectly tailored pencil skirts really don’t leave much to the imagination regarding the lush curve of her bottom. Sometimes he catches her looking at him with an odd expression, and if he was at all confident about reading the many and varied expressions of Holmeses, he’d say it was speculative.

-

On the rare occasions that Greg Lestrade has called in her help when Sherlock has been otherwise occupied (unavoidably in hospital, alternately terrorising the staff and sulking blackly) he notices that everyone at the Yard seems simultaneously terrified of and enamoured with her. She is charming, deferent, and her preferred way of helping to solve cases is to spend five silent minutes looking over the crime scene, and forwarding a detailed and comprehensive report a few hours later. They all call her ‘Sir’. 

Lestrade looks a bit like he might cry when Sherlock sweeps back in for the first time after his stint in hospital.

“So, your sister’s…gone back to doing whatever she does?” He sounds dejected.

“Oh, Mycroft? Yes, she’s insufferable isn’t she? She’s so lazy she probably didn’t bother to deduce half of the important details on your cases.”

“She solved them, though,” Lestrade interjects warily. 

“ _That_ isn’t the point,” says Sherlock, and sweeps off before anyone can inquire as to what, actually, the point is.

Lestrade glances over at John with the look of a child who has been given a puppy for Christmas only to have it taken away and replaced with a lump of coal on Boxing Day. John pats him on the shoulder.

None of this prevents Mycroft from being as utterly infuriating as her brother when she wants to be. 

Her rivalry with Sherlock seems to be mostly about deadly silences and withering glares, but when it comes to John, withering looks are pretty ineffective. It’s all down to shouting with him, really. He thinks Mycroft and Sherlock probably should have done more of that when they were children, rather than coming up with more and more ingenious ways to murder each other.

\- 

“He almost had his bloody throat slit! And you just, what, couldn’t be bothered to tell him?”

He’s standing in her office, doing his best to appear intimidating as she regards him narrowly from behind her extravagant mahogany desk. It's a familiar scenario.

“Sherlock is a grown man, John. As you are well aware, he takes badly to being _coddled_.”

“Telling someone that the ‘empty’ house they think they’re going to be investigating actually contains a group of angry fucking murderous drug runners is not _coddling_ , Mycroft. It’s bloody common sense! And don’t deny that you knew, you were there swooping in like some fucking _deus ex machina_ as soon as it all went tits up.”

“John. You know as well as I do that had I seen fit to inform Sherlock of this, he would have done exactly the same thing.” Her voice rises slightly.

“He would have been prepared for them, at least!”

“My brother is always prepared for the unexpected.”

John throws his hands up in exasperation, “Jesus, do you even _care_ about him almost getting stabbed in the throat?”

Mycroft stands suddenly, moves towards him round the desk, “You have no idea what I care about, Doctor Watson.” She spits his name out acidly, as close to losing her temper as he’s ever seen her when she’s not around Sherlock. 

“I think I do,” he says, stepping closer, “I think you just want to prove that you’re smarter than him. Your fucking sibling rivalry almost got him killed, just because both of you are so bloody _stupid_ that you want to prove yourselves the smartest one, the best one.”

“Don’t talk about what you do not understand, Doctor Watson,” she snaps, a furious flush rising on her cheeks, her usually iron self control betrayed by the rhythmic clenching and unclenching of her hand, the tight set of her jaw.

John steps closer, refusing to be intimidated by the way she is looming over him. 

“I think I understand perfectly. Just admit that you were wrong. You should have told him. You were _wrong_.”

“I don’t believe I was,” she hisses.

“Wrong! W.R.O.N.G. You can say it, five simple letters.”

“ _No._ ”

They’re standing almost nose-to-nose, John with his head tilted up defiantly, eyes narrowed. Mycroft is breathing loudly through her nostrils, mouth a thin angry line. He can feel her breath on his face, see her pulse jumping at her throat.

A pause. 

Mycroft steps back suddenly, visibly calming herself. She smooths down the front of her skirt. 

“I apologise, Doctor Watson. I am sure you are quite right, it won’t happen again.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” says John. He leaves, battle lost. 

-

After that, she stops speaking to him. 

He’s baffled; he didn’t think that Mycroft was the type to hold such petty grudges. Sherlock perhaps, but Mycroft is a diplomat, always wanting to smooth things over, keep everyone happy. Apparently she is the type though, because although he attempts to go and say hello the next time she’s standing nearby bathed in red and blue flashing lights, she slips gracefully back into one of her ubiquitous sleek black cars the moment she spots him. He tries not to be, but he’s a little hurt. 

She starts leaving just as he arrives when she is visiting Sherlock. She’s never rude, or ungracious, but nevertheless always manages to find an excuse to slip out as soon as he makes his presence known. Sherlock is delighted. John is bemused and a little pissed off.

A few months after the almost-stabbing incident, Sherlock sends him to Mycroft’s office to pick up some slightly less than legal files on a suspect. After two hours of waiting around in the familiar bland, wood-lined hallway, John is not in the best of moods. She deigns to see him about half an hour later. He stomps a little harder than necessary on her no doubt hand-woven rug.

“Do you have the files, then?”

“The files?” she smiles quizzically at him. He grits his teeth.

“The _files_ that I have been waiting for. The _files_ that Sherlock asked you for, and that he asked me to _pick up_.

“Hm,” she flicks idly through a leather-bound diary, “Oh yes. Oops. Must have slipped my mind. I’ll send someone to two hundred and twenty one _bee_ with them later this evening. Good afternoon, Doctor Watson.”

John closes his eyes, counts to ten. _Slipped her mind, my arse._ He suspects nothing has ever slipped Mycroft’s mind. 

“I’ll wait here for them. Thanks.” He wanders to the window and sprawls extravagantly onto an enormous leather chair. 

Mycroft’s mouth twists, pleasant expression gone abruptly. She looks for a second like she might just order him to leave, but then seems to think better of it and picks up her phone, stabbing at the buttons, colour rising slightly on her cheeks.

“The Alexander files. Yes. Yes. _Now_ , if you please. Very good. Yes, yes, the usual place.”

She places the phone down with a loud _snick_. 

They sit in silence, Mycroft gazing at him pointedly. He holds it. 

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he states flatly, after a while. 

“I assure you, Doctor Watson, that I--”

“I’m not a complete moron, Mycroft.”

She looks like she wants to contest that statement, but doesn’t say anything.

“Why have you been avoiding me?”

She pauses for a second, “I was merely avoiding unnecessary friction--”

“ _Unnecessary friction?_ ” John hears his voice rising slightly, “What do you call leaving me hanging about in your bloody hallway for almost _three hours_?”

“This is precisely what I’m talking about, John.”

“ _You_ cause all the friction! It’s nothing to do with me!”

Mycroft’s eyes narrow, flush becoming more apparent as she stands and puts her hands on the desk in front of her, “And what would you call coming into _my_ office and accusing me of not caring about my own brother?” she hisses.

“Being right,” he spits back, standing up out of the chair and moving towards her.

“You have no concept of what I do or what I care about. I suggest that you hold your tongue.” Her tone is flat, deadly.

“Sherlock is my _friend._ Someone needs to make sure he doesn’t die!”

“I have made sure of that every day of his adult life!”

Somehow they’re abruptly right next to each other, John glaring up at the familiar sight of Mycroft flushed and looming over him. They stare each other down for a long moment, then in one fluid movement Mycroft has swept up both of his hands and pinned him against the wall. They breathe hard against each other. 

“Fuck you,” says John, “If this is just your way of trying to make me forget that I’m angry, it’s not going to work.” He thrusts his hips upwards, flips them so Mycroft is against the wall. He’s suddenly, achingly hard. Mycroft bites her lip, pushes back into him viciously, then she’s pulling her skirt up over her thighs, unzipping John’s trousers and John has about two seconds to process _oh fuck, suspenders_ and _oh fucking fuck, she’s completely bare_ before she’s shoving down onto him with a messy groan.

“Fuck. _Fuck_. We don’t--condom--”

“Shut up, you infuriating little man.” She grinds down, breath hitching when his hands slip down to cup her bottom. One of her legs winds round his hip.

“Oh, but--God--”

“You love it, _Doctor_ ,” she sing-songs, tone somewhat ruined by her wet gasping, “supposed to be responsible, respectable.” 

“I don’t--”

“You want to _claim_ me, don’t you? You came into my office today and decided to _put me in my place_. Silly little boy. You are a silly. Little. Boy.” She punctuates with sharp, violent thrusts of her hips. “Now you want to fuck all your seed up into me, don’t you? Make me yours. _Own_ me.”

John groans brokenly, hips pushing a stuttering rhythm against her. He didn’t. He doesn’t. Fuck.

“Yes, you’re imagining it right now. You think you might get me pregnant like this. Oh, _you like it._ ”

Not for the first time, John is slightly terrified that she can actually read his mind. He tries to push back the glut of filthy, god, _gorgeous_ images her words have poured into his head. It doesn’t work. 

“Would you suckle on my swollen breasts like a feeding infant? You’d drink everything I gave you, greedy and grateful. More grateful than you are now for everything I do.”

She’s going to break him. It’s going to be wonderful.

“Fuck you,” he chokes out, and comes, eyelids fluttering in delight at the feel of her becoming suddenly, messily wet. God.

He drops to his knees, and buries his face in her. She smells incredible, a mixture of come and sweat and sweet heady musk, and he sucks on her clit with abandon, spreading her with the flat of his tongue and pushing her thighs wide with his hands. He shoves two fingers up into her, thrusting hard and gracelessly in and out until her legs are shaking on either side of his head and she comes, slicking his hand to his wrist in slippery wetness. 

She tugs down her skirt, waits until he looks vaguely respectable, and shows him the door. He forgets the file.

-

He doesn’t see her again for several months, during which time he’s sometimes thought back on what he inwardly calls The Incident and wondered if he imagined it, dreamed it up in his frantic, sleep-deprived brain.

He starts to think more and more that this might actually be the case the next time he sees her, because she acts exactly the same towards him as she always has done: friendly, if cool, somewhat condescending. Even when Sherlock clearly isn’t paying attention and he _looks_ at her, she just gazes back at him, blankly curious. 

She even phones him once (his stomach definitely doesn’t flip like a thirteen year old girl’s) to warn him with great sincerity that Sherlock has yet again pissed off Lestrade to an unreasonable degree and could he please try to make sure that there’s nothing _incriminating_ on the premises? He tells her not to worry, he’ll take care of it. 

-

All of these things are reasons why, when Mycroft pulls up in one of her sleek black cars and bundles him, protesting, into the back, the absolute last thing he is expecting is to be pushed back against the buttery leather of the seat and kissed desperately.

For about five seconds he is frozen, mouth automatically open under hers, and she skilfully sucks his bottom lip into her mouth and swings one stockinged leg over his lap, causing her skirt to strain tight over her thighs. 

“Mycroft, wha--” he manages eventually, abruptly both deeply confused and mortifyingly turned on.

“Shut up.”

“But--”

“Do keep up, John. Sex. Yes?”

“Uh,” he says, eloquently.

She sighs and rolls her eyes as if he’s being completely obtuse. 

“Oh, do you require us to go on a _date_ beforehand, now? How tedious.” She starts to move off his lap. He tightens his hands on her hips; her smile is small but triumphant. 

It all happens too fast for John’s liking. He wants to peel her skirt up and suck on her again until she’s sobbing, fuck her with his fingers and lick her thighs. Wants to tear open her modest blouse and flick his tongue on her nipples. He doesn’t get to do any of that, because she yanks his trousers open without preamble and sinks down onto him with a sigh. It’s still fucking incredible. 

She rolls her hips and moans low in her throat before spreading her legs wider and slipping a finger between them. When she comes, he feels her clamping down on his cock, dripping liberally down over his balls; he jerks into her with a breathless cry, his face buried in her neck as he shivers and sighs and comes and comes. 

In the time it takes John to compose himself, Mycroft manages somehow to look almost exactly as she had when he’d entered the car. The only out of place elements are the way a few loose wisps of her hair curl slightly as if in damp heat, and the unusually glossy sheen of her kiss-slicked lips. Taking a quick look at himself in the mirror, he looks…absolutely like he’s just been shagged within an inch of his life. 

“You can’t just use me as some sort of sex toy whenever you feel like it, you know,” he says, trying to look stern as he fruitlessly attempts to flatten his hair. She just raises her eyebrow, gazes out of the window. He sighs.

She drops him off a few minutes walk from Baker Street, as if a few minutes is going to prevent Sherlock knowing exactly what it is he has just been doing. Oh well, John just hopes he won’t be able to figure out _who_.

That evening, he gets a text.

**Consider yourself owed  
a favour. M.**

Perfectly blunt and perfectly ambiguous. He could very well call in the favour on a case, he knows, and Mycroft would accept it. He could also call it in for something else entirely. He decides to keep silent on the matter for the time being. 

The next morning over breakfast (John: toast with peanut butter, an egg, coffee. Sherlock: half of John’s coffee), Sherlock looks him up and down and gives an incredulous little snort. 

“It can’t have been that good.”

“What?”

“Yesterday. Whoever you…” he trails of, hand waving, wrinkling his nose. “You still look all…smug.”

Ah. That answers his worry about Sherlock knowing _who_ , then.

“Oh, right. It was.” He feels a smirk tugging at his lips and takes a sip of his coffee to hide it.

“Hm.” Sherlock’s attention has wandered already, and he’s busy pushing detritus off the table to make room for his microscope, box of tissue samples retrieved from the fruit and veg drawer in the fridge. John eyes the milk suspiciously.

“No, i’ve not done anything to the milk,” Sherlock says, not moving his gaze from the eyepiece. 

John sighs, takes his paper and sprawls out on the sofa. The words blur in front of his eyes, and he ponders idly on Mycroft’s offer. He gets the feeling she wants him to impress her in some way with whatever favour he decides to call in. The text was innocuous, but he can imagine clearly Mycroft’s look of withering disdain when she considers something beneath her notice. Imagining it directed at him is… unpleasant.

He pulls out his laptop to do a little research. 

About half an hour later, Sherlock makes a huffing noise. John looks up. 

“I am begging you, please clear your browser history before I have to use your laptop again. You look like you’ve been clobbered over the head.” His lip is curled slightly in contempt. 

John refuses to blush. “How about -- novel idea here -- how about you consider _not_ using my laptop?”

Sherlock just flaps his hand dismissively. John snorts and goes back to his research. Now, if only he could work out how picture messaging works on Harry’s phone… Ah. Yes. 

**How unexpected. I  
** have everything we will  
need. Saturday. M. 

He thinks of the picture he sent. He thinks of Mycroft. _I have everything we will need._ God. He makes a tactical retreat to his bedroom and doesn’t even care if Sherlock deduces what he’s doing.

 

He’s on his way to Tesco on Saturday evening when the hair prickles on the back of his neck and he turns to see the car prowling along the road behind him. For the first time, he gets in with no protest.

There’s a note stuck to the front door of Mycroft’s house.

_The shower is at the top of the stairs on your right. M._

He rolls his eyes. _Not very subtle, Mycroft._

He’s just standing with his eyes closed under the water when he distantly hears the lock on the front door click. He follows the _snick snick snick_ of heels over a wooden floor as they approach the bathroom. The door creaks open seconds later, followed by a quick rush of cold air. 

“Hi,” he murmurs, not opening his eyes.

There’s no reply but for a rustle of silk and the distinctive whirr of zips, then a cool, smooth body is slipping into the shower behind him. He opens his eyes, turns around. 

“Hello, John.” Mycroft has a slight self-conscious smile on her face. John’s eyes rake up and down her long pale body, settling finally on her lips. How could he ever have thought she wasn’t pretty? She’s magnificent. He leans in and presses his mouth to hers softly, and she parts her lips, abruptly pulling him flush to her. She feels delightfully slippery under the hot water and he writhes a little against her, making her sigh.

They stand under the spray and kiss; Mycroft opens her mouth readily and slides her tongue hot and wet against his, he bites her lower lip softly, touches his tongue to hers. When he brings his hand down to cup between her legs, he finds her slick and swollen and he moans involuntarily, dipping a slippery finger inside her. She trembles slightly, spreads her thighs. He slides two fingers easily into her and she lets her head fall back against the tiles, mouth falling open in a pant. He thumbs her clit, leans in to suck gently on her tongue; she comes quickly with a shivery moan, tightening around his fingers irregularly. He keeps his hand cupped against her until she twists away and pushes him out of the shower, pulling a downy towel from the heater.

“Bedroom,” she says, kissing him briefly before striding through the door. He follows hurriedly, drying himself as he walks. Her arse really is fucking spectacular. Mycroft’s smirking as she turns, clearly knows exactly what he’s been looking at.

“Do you still want--”

“Yes,” he says, no hesitation. She raises an eyebrow, mouth turning up at the corner. 

“On the bed. Face down. Spread your legs.”

Her tone makes him shiver with anticipation and he obeys with relish. 

He feels her moving behind him, and the bed dips a little as she moves to kneel between his parted legs. She runs her blunt nails lightly down the backs of his thighs and he hums in pleasure. 

She strokes him like that for a while, smoothing over his legs and lower back until he’s completely relaxed, lying puddled on the duvet. A sudden snapping noise isn’t even enough to startle him out of his daze, and the first cool slick touch of her fingers to his perineum is breathtaking. 

“Oh.”

“Shh,” she soothes, “that’s it. Lovely.”

John rolls his hips minutely, lets out a little moan as her finger slides inexorably inwards. It goes slowly, oh so slowly, and by the time her knuckle is pressed against his skin he is panting. 

“Please,” he whispers into the duvet.

She won’t be hurried though, and she slides her finger smoothly in and out, working him open expertly. He wonders how many times she’s done this. After a few minutes of that slow, relentless slide he’s not really wondering about anything at all, is mostly gasping wetly into his arm. His skin is tingling and she hasn’t even made a move to brush against--oh-- _oh_.

“ _Fuck_ , Mycroft.”

“You’re lovely like this,” she murmurs, kissing the top of his thigh, arm still moving slowly, “I’m glad you asked me for it.”

When she withdraws her finger he gives a little noise of complaint, which she leans up and kisses from his mouth. “Patience,” she says firmly, kissing back down his spine, darting her tongue out lightly against him before sitting back. He hears another click and snap, then something very large and very cold is pressing relentlessly against him. He tenses a little and she gives him a light smack.

“Let me. It feels wonderful, I promise. You just have to relax.”

“You’ve--?”

“Of course. It’s quite lovely.”

She smooths her hand down his side and stills, just the head inside him. He takes a minute to parse the feeling before she’s pushing forward again, slow but unrelenting. The feeling of having something _inside_ him is incredibly weird; he realises he’s stopped breathing for several seconds. Mycroft stops moving, leans down to scrape the back of his neck with her teeth as he takes long, shuddering breaths beneath her. 

“Okay?” she asks, mouth close to his ear.

“God, it’s weird.”

“Good?” she withdraws ever so slightly and pushes forward, letting him feel her a little. The smooth leather straps are cold against his hips.

“ _Uh_ , yeah,” he gasps as she shifts again.

“I’m going to move now.”

This snap of her hips is more forceful and it pushes a breath out of him.

“Oh, _God_.”

She’s looking for a rhythm, pushing deeper and harder and suddenly she adjusts and the tip slides beautifully along his prostate and he’s choking out a desperate moan, heat skittering up his spine. She takes the hint and stays there, hips slapping against his arse lightly as she fucks him with short deep strokes, hands holding him still as he tries to squirm up into her.

“Oh God, oh my God,” he muffles his voice with his arm and she reaches up to pull it out of the way. “Oh, you’re fucking me.”

“Take it,” she whispers, smacking against him steady and deep. 

“God, I could come from this,” John pants, hips rolling under hers, mouth parted on a wet gasp.

“Can you take it harder?” She gives him one forceful thrust forwards; he moans.

“ _Yes_.”

Mycroft pushes his legs wider, holds his hips and fucks into him _hard_ , hitting his prostate on almost every thrust, spreading him wider with her hands; all he can do is clutch onto the sheets, tilting his hips up as much as he can to take more of her. He pushes back to meet each thrust, gasping wetly and feeling the rough-sweet slide of the sheets against his cock and his nipples as he’s pushed against the bed.

“Like that, like that, oh fuck yes I’m going to come,” he pants, rolling his hips luxuriously and shivering with tension and sharp spiking pleasure.

The feeling of all his muscles beginning to spasm and contract around her has him crying out helplessly as he jerks and thrusts and comes in long, slick pulses onto the sheets. His cock is still twitching weakly as she slowly pulls out of him and he moans quietly at the bizarre feeling of emptiness. Mycroft drops a soft kiss on the back of his neck, mouth brushing the short hairs there, before she shifts off him with a sigh.

After a long moment face down on the duvet trying to remember how to breathe again, he turns to look at her, pale and lovely and flushed with exertion. The smooth blue silicone cock curves obscenely outwards from her body, still glistening wetly; the black straps holding it on make a striking contrast with her skin, which is reddened slightly where they’ve pulled tight. He traces a finger along one and she hums.

“Was that…satisfactory?” she asks, a slight quirk to her mouth.

“Mm.” He continues to trace his fingers across her skin gently; she’s so _soft_. His fingers track the paths from freckle to freckle along her hips, up her ribs. She shivers. He leans up and undoes the straps at her thighs, slides everything off to look at her. _Beautiful_. Half-lidded eyes watch him as he runs an exploratory finger over the curved slope of her mound, slipping it gently between her labia; she’s slippery wet and she arches a little into his touch.

He leans closer and licks at her with little tentative touches until she’s tense, shuddering, then he tongues her clitoris with quick pointed flicks and sucks softly and she comes with a high pitched gasp, hand fisted in his hair. He continues lapping at her lightly until she’s squirming away, clearly trying not to laugh. Holmeses don’t _giggle_. 

He crawls up her body and kisses her. She licks up the side of his neck, bites his ear and whispers, “Sleep now.” He acquiesces.

-

The unfamiliar alarm clock next to his head proclaims it to be nine in the morning, and the space in the bed next to him is rumpled but cold. Blearily, John shuffles towards the kitchen, following the mouth-watering scent of fresh coffee. He’s greeted by the sight of Mycroft standing next to the stove wearing nothing but a soft blue shirt, pouring from a cafétiere into two mugs. He accepts one gratefully and they drink in surprisingly comfortable silence, Mycroft reading a trashy broadsheet, John picking at the Observer crossword. This isn’t going to become a Thing, he knows, but he still draws her down for a long, soft kiss before he leaves. 

As he looks back from the taxi, she’s standing on her doorstep, one hand touched to her mouth. 

\- 

In the interim, the media frenzy begins. Once, during Moriarty’s trial, he glances at Sherlock to find him looking utterly _lost_. It’s unsettling, and he makes tea for both of them and baits Sherlock until he feels a semblance of normality again. 

Around the beginning of June, London has just started to gain the hazy feel of summer. Sherlock’s moods are even odder and more unpredictable and John finds himself wandering the city during the days where he’d otherwise just be hanging around the flat _making me itch!_ , as Sherlock had accused him the day before. He pushes through the crowds in Camden Market, immersing himself in sight and smell and people. He buys a sticky, spicy kebab from an hirstute Turkish stallholder, fingers misshapen sterling silver rings, brushes his hands over racks of spice-coloured Indian silks. As the sun is sitting low in the sky and giving the city a delicate yellow cast, he’s sitting in a cramped beer garden with a cold pint of lager, contented. His phone buzzes, and he feels a stab of irritation that Sherlock is _yet again_ going to pull him away from a perfectly nice evening in the pub. 

**I require a favour, no  
questions asked. M.**

Irritation melts into apprehension.

__**is it the kind of favour that  
** will end up with me dead in a  
ditch somewhere in eastern  
europe? 

He wouldn’t put it past Mycroft to have some sort of secret European spy network that she needs assistance with. Not at all. 

**Another kind of favour,  
John. M.**

Oh. _Oh_.

_**when/where?** _

**I’ll send a car. M.**

He drains his pint, the blurry calm of his afternoon shattered suddenly into anticipation and a hint of nervousness, which he ruthlessly squashes.

Mycroft meets him at the door, mouth a thin line. She grabs him and whispers into his ear, “I need you to fuck me, _hard_ ,” and just like that he is hard and gasping, pushing her back against the wall and scrambling to get his hands under her shirt. 

“Yes,” she hisses, head tipping back into the wall. 

“Jesus Christ, Mycroft,” he gasps into her neck, mouthing a wet line up towards her ear. 

She turns and drags him without ceremony towards her bedroom, where she pulls him by him collar onto the bed and breathes, “ _Use me_ ,” against his parted lips.

He opens his mouth, and then shuts it again. _No questions asked_ , right. He can do that. 

There’s a quick wrestle for control, and as soon as she yields, he flips her onto her back and pushes her skirt up over her thighs until it’s bunched around her waist. She arches her hips up and he pins them ruthlessly.

“Thought you were a stockings kind of girl, Mycroft.” He traces a curious finger along the waistband of her sheer black tights.

“Suspenders show through the fabric of this skirt.” She says, gasping a little.

“Mm.”

He thumbs the hollows of her hipbones, scrapes a nail gently over the seam of her tights, watching the way her eyelids flutter. With a quick movement, he grasps her hips and twists her so she’s lying face down, hands fisted in the duvet, hair splayed across the pillows. She looks absolutely debauched.

“What do you want, Mycroft?” Teasing, light.

“ _Anything_ ,” she grits out, “just get on with it.”

“Anything, eh? I suppose that has possibilities.” He runs a finger under the waistband of her tights. She squirms a little. John pauses.

“Actually, I have a better idea.” Heat slides down his spine. 

He grasps the silky material firmly with both hands and _pulls_ ; the tearing sound makes Mycroft draw in a breathy _oh_. 

He hooks his fingers into her knickers through the hole he’s just made, drags them down until they’re tucked just under the plush curve of her arse. He allows himself a moment just to look at her like this: almost completely dressed and utterly exposed. _Fuck._

Hands splayed, he spreads her open a little and, remembering what she’s asked of him, wastes no time in pressing his tongue flat against her hole. She chokes. 

He pushes the tip inwards, spreading her as wide as he can with his hands and flicking at her with his tongue, at the same time moving his fingers down to slide into her where she’s hot and clenching and so fucking wet it makes his cock twitch in sympathy.

The room feels hot, smells like sex and he gasps against her, sitting back to rub a thumb over her lightly fluttering arsehole, questioning. Her hips push back in unmistakable demand.

He drags his slippery fingers out and up to rub over her hole, the slide sweet and soft, silky. The tips press inwards, and Mycroft’s soft hissed _yes_ is muffled by the pillow. The knickers round her thighs prevent her from spreading her legs and instead she tilts her hips up as much as she can, writhing and fucking herself on his fingers, and fuck, fuck, _now._

She’s twisting away, pulling open a drawer by the bed and throwing a bottle back down towards him. Her arse is framed beautifully by her ripped back tights, the hole just big enough for him to get his hand through; _God_ it looks gorgeous.

John slides his fingers out, moves her onto her back and pushes her legs up, cock jerking as his eyes dart over her – wet and open and desperate. He slicks himself up and presses firmly, pushing and _watching_ with a fevered gaze as the flared head of him stretches and pushes in with one long, wet slide. He tucks that particular image away for later use, trembles suddenly with the effort of holding back and he can’t resist one hard sweet push of his hips, fuck yes.

“ _Oh_ , that’s it,” says Mycroft suddenly, “More.”

Again, a hot snap of his hips and Mycroft moans, pushes back into him. He stays deep, fucks her with hard, short strokes and pushes her legs up further so he can watch. She’s so wet that he can feel it, _see it_ dripping down over where he’s sliding into her, making everything slippery, silky, beautiful. Letting go of one leg, he pushes two fingers into her and presses his thumb over her swollen clit; she lets out a whine.

“Oh, _yes_ , yes, harder, more.” 

God, the feeling of her hot and clenching around him is exquisite; he smacks his hips against hers viciously and she only moans and grabs the sheets and breathes hard through gritted teeth, mouth opening as he flicks his thumb over her clit hard and fast, keeping rhythm with the push of his cock and the inelegant press of his fingers inside her. She’s coming, suddenly, and he starts to slow a little but she moves her hands to his arse and pulls him violently against her. With one quick move he has her hands pinned above her head and he gives in, fucking into her with abandon, folding her almost in half as she gasps out helplessly under him. His fingers are still inside her, thumb jerkily moving on her clit and she comes again, almost sobbing. 

“More,” she moans, “God, keep going.”

“I’m going to come, Mycroft, I can’t--” he drops his head down, panting with effort and shivering with arousal, hips slamming into her.

“Yes, come in me, fuck me, _Christ_ ,” and then he’s coming, still pushing into her as she writhes and pants, trying to wring every last thrust out of him as he chokes out embarrassingly uncensored moans against her silk-covered calves. Panting, sweaty and sticky and softening inside her, he moves to get off and she makes a noise of complaint, contracting her muscles around him and making him jerk. He lies still for another moment, shuddering at each clench and spasm. Eventually he pulls out and collapses onto the bed, and he watches as Mycroft pushes her tights and knickers down impatiently, spreads her legs and pushes three fingers back into herself with a bitten off curse. 

“Jesus,” he says, rolling languidly towards her, “let me.” He pushes two fingers of one hand back into her arse and replaces hers with three from his other hand and fingerfucks her with both until she’s shivering, swearing, coming, sweat beading on her thighs and running down her neck.

Still trembling minutely, she pulls away from him wordlessly and goes to the bathroom to shower. John falls asleep almost immediately. He wakes up once in the night and moves to pet her damp hair slightly. She stirs in her sleep, makes a little snuffling noise that's so completely _un-Mycroft_ that he feels his heart clench a little in his chest. 

When he wakes in the morning she’s gone, and he lies in the bed for a long time, staring at the ceiling.

\- 

A week later, Sherlock is dead. 

John sends a text before the funeral.

_**if i see you again,  
i’ll probably hit you**_

There’s no reply. 

-

It’s three years and four months later that he finds himself on Mycroft’s doorstep again. As she opens the door, a look of outright surprise crosses her face briefly, and if Mycroft _looks_ surprised that means she is very surprised indeed. 

“John.” Her voice is even, but he doesn’t miss the way her right hand jerks ever so slightly, as if she wants to reach towards him. 

He shifts closer, right into her personal space; she doesn’t make any move to step away, just breathes in and closes her eyes for a long second. He puts a hand on her shoulders, pushes her gently backwards, and steps into the house, closing the door behind him.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Negotiation Theory cover art](https://archiveofourown.org/works/538249) by [numberthescars](https://archiveofourown.org/users/numberthescars/pseuds/numberthescars)




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